


One Year

by oldtimeyryan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case fic (sort of), M/M, and Sherlock is a lovesick puppy, here be smut, slightly OOC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldtimeyryan/pseuds/oldtimeyryan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a year. A year of running after criminals through dirty London streets, a year of witnessing things that definitely shouldn't be possible, and a year of being in love with one of the most insufferable people on the entire planet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Year

**Author's Note:**

> This is frightfully un-beta'd, I'm rushing to upload this as it was my birthday yesterday and I'm going out tonight. 
> 
> This was a giftfic for my best friend, Meri, whose prompt was 'The first anniversary of Sherlock and John's relationship'. I just sort of added everything else. I hope you enjoy, Meri <3
> 
> If you find any grammatical/spelling errors, don't hesitate to let me know. (I need a new beta anyway so if you're up to the challenge...)
> 
> These characters aren't mine and yadda yadda yadda.

It had been a year. A year of running after criminals through dirty London streets, a year of witnessing things that definitely shouldn’t be possible, and a year of being in love with one of the most insufferable people on the entire planet. John Watson was blissfully happy, which wasn’t a surprise. Sherlock Holmes was blissfully happy, which was a surprise. After two years of dancing around attraction, both men had succumbed to each other when Sherlock thought he was going to lose John.

They had been on a case, of course, and they had broken into the apartment of who Sherlock knew had committed the serial murders of four teenage boys. 

“Sherlock, someone’s coming,” John had whispered, grabbing his friend’s thin wrist. Sherlock spun around to meet his eyes, and then he tilted his head toward a closet. 

“Hide in there,” he hissed. John didn't need to be told twice. He had moved across the room to open the door and slip inside, with Sherlock closely behind him. Once they were enclosed in darkness, John noticed how close they were. He could feel Sherlock’s breathing, even feel his heartbeat. The stony front Sherlock had put forward was most obviously a lie, as his heart was racing. John swallowed down a thick lump of he wasn't sure-- _at least at that time_ \-- what. The light in the bedroom turned on, the thin stream of yellow painted the floor. If anyone looked underneath the door, they would see two pairs of feet. Sherlock slipped is long fingers around John’s wrists, a relaxing movement, but John still stayed tense. 

“ _Have you got your gun?_ ” Sherlock breathed in his ear. John barely inclined his head to answer. Sherlock’s fingertips pressed lightly on John’s pulse point, and John started to count to 10 in his head. Someone was moving about in the room, and John had closed his eyes. Both men heard a faint chuckle and John’s eyes flew open. A thick, curling grey gas leeched through the gap. John had to stifle a cough and then had to stop breathing in the substance. Either way, he was going to be unconscious in a matter of minutes, and Sherlock knew this. “ _John. John, breathe!_ ” His voice was still soft, and the words barely registered in his head. Sherlock sounded too far away. Black spots became white in John’s vision and he slumped boneless in Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock supported John’s dead weight, knowing he only had a few more moments until he was unconscious himself. He took the time to hold his breath, and fix his gaze on John. He took in everything he saw like it would be the last thing. As his lungs begged for clean air, he began to give into the dizziness. Once he woke up, he would get Lestrade and this would be over.

Sherlock’s plan was diminished when he awoke. His hands were bound behind his back with thick plastic cuffs and industry wire. Wire of all things. That would explain the lacerations of Mitchell Wilson’s wrists. Directly in front of him was John, who was bound in the same way. He hadn't shown signs of stirring, which made alarm bells ring in Sherlock’s head. His eyes flitted around the room. They seemed to be in a basement, not below the apartment. Perhaps on the other side of London. Yes, definitely on the other side of London. It was too dark to tell, but nothing seemed to sing _rape/torture dungeon_ so this wasn’t where the boys were killed. No, one died here. Sherlock struggled against his bonds, which was completely useless. So he tried another tactic.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice filled with a sense of urgency he didn’t even know he had. “John, wake up! Why aren’t you awake?”

“He probably won’t wake up at all,” It was a rough voice that spoke, one that belonged to a smoker of over 30 years, and one who had inhaled many chemical fumes. Sherlock looked up from John’s form to meet the eyes of one Stephen Collier. The man sported a grim smile, his brown eyes completely dead. Sherlock leaned back into his chair, replacing his concern and fear for John’s condition with a mask of ice and steel.

“Of course he will, John has endured much worse than a mad scientists homemade drug,” Secretly though, he knew that there was a possibility Mr. Collier’s words were true. The murderer laughed and walked out of Sherlock’s line of sight.

“Surely you would know that no matter what one has endured, a blocked airway is fatal,” Collier walked back, standing behind John, hiding something from Sherlock’s view. “Robert Parkinson was a cocaine abuser, yet he still fell to the drug.”

“Parkinson died from the shock of his rape,” Sherlock said, adding extra bite to his words. Collier laughed softly, like he was looking back on a fond memory.

“Ah yes. Poor Robert, he was such the entertainer. _Please, don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything!_ ” Anger built up within Sherlock. Not many things could make him feel like this, but the threat on John, and an insane rapist could.

“What have you done to John?” he snapped, straining against his bonds. He had to bite on his lip when he felt the skin split. Collier laughed again, the sound louder yet it held no humour. Sherlock blinked and there was the Browning L9A1 pressed to John’s temple and a kitchen knife pressed to his throat. Sherlock knew he had blanched because Collier smirked, and the gun was cocked. “No, don’t--“

“What can you see?” Collier questioned, his voice now alight. He enjoyed this. Of course he did, he tortured and raped boys. And this was torturing Sherlock.

“You. John. A gun and a knife,” Sherlock felt sweat on his forehead and he felt that fear again. _No, not John_. Collier laughed again and the weapons moved away. Sherlock felt relief for five point five seconds before the basement was filled with fluorescent white light. The stone walls were covered with mold, and now everything came into a proper view. There were chains on the wall, a blood stain rug on the floor and Collier. There was dried blood on his face, which was crusted over. It was put on the skin as what seemed to be war paint. Sherlock’s eyes took some time to adjust to the sudden brightness and his earlier observations were slashed. John had dark blood dripping from his forehead and running down his neck. Sherlock strained again and the wires and cuffs cut into him again. 

“What can you see?” Collier repeated, moving back to John. 

“John, dying,” Sherlock’s voice was strained and he almost slumped in defeat. Collier laughed again.

“Sherlock Holmes, you’re a fun one, yet not as fun as I had expected. Why was Watson stuck?”  
“  
He started to wake up… And you hit him,” Sherlock’s eyes raked down John’s form. With the darkness before, he only saw the outline of John and of course, Collier. Now he could see John’s blood staining his jumper and that he didn’t seem to breathing. “How long have we been here?”

“Three days, give or take,” Collier pressed the knife down slightly, causing Sherlock to lurch forward and get pain for his efforts. His blood was now dripping onto his fingers. “Oh, you received a text message from one Mycroft Holmes. _Where are you? This does not seem the time for you to drop a case, especially when you were so close. – MH_.” Sherlock closed his eyes for a few seconds, a new wave of relief flowing through him. Mycroft was coming. Correction, Mycroft was here.

“Fascinating,” Sherlock said, relaxing back. Collier’s brow furrowed in confusion and he moved the fatal objects from John, very slightly before turning to face the door. “I suppose you didn’t think to put your first victim facing the door did you? So that you could keep a watch on your precious goods.” Collier turned back, his arms dropped. Finally, he did something correct.

“Who is coming?” he snapped angrily.

“Only the British government and Secret Service,” Sherlock had answered. With impeccable timing, the door open and Mycroft walked in. Collier started to laugh again.

“That’s just one man, how--” His words were cut off with a cry of pain and the drop of a weight. Collier was on the ground, gripping his abdomen and gasping for air through the pain. Three other men ran into the room to collect him as Mycroft almost ran over to cut Sherlock and John free. Sherlock fell forward to watch John, and automatically checked his pulse. It was there, quite weak, barely a flutter, but it was there. He was also breathing, and Sherlock felt his fear dissolve into great concern. His fingers ran over his wrists, his throat, his temple and forehead. Despite his pain from the cuts on his wrists, he needed to know John was okay.

From there, John and Sherlock were hospitalised yet made full recoveries. He and Sherlock didn’t speak of the case for many weeks until Sherlock swept in front of him and held his hands.

“I could have lost you,” he said, his tone almost feverish. John looked at his best friend with a raised eyebrow. “To Collier. I could have lost you.”

“I was in more danger in Afghanistan,” John said jokingly, but it died when he saw how serious, how _scared_ Sherlock looked.

“I could lose you to anyone, John, to a murderer or to some woman who will sweep away your heart and your presence from 221,” Sherlock’s hands felt very warm around John’s, and he found that’s all he could think about. “I… Don’t want to lose you, not to anyone.”

“Sherlock…” John met his gaze and his heart jumped. “What are you trying to say?” He knew full well what he was getting at, but he wanted to hear it…

“I… Am not overly skilled in this area, John, but I do know the signs, and I do know that I find you very attractive and I want to be in a relationship with you,” Sherlock said the last few words in a rush, and John sat there, dazed. Was this really happening? “But I understand if you’re not interested. You tell me the you’re not gay as much as I inform Anderson that he is an idiot, and--”

“You’re a great, sodding idiot, you know that?” John choked out before closing the space between them and meeting Sherlock’s lips. The kiss wasn’t sloppy, but it wasn’t overly skilled either. There was a lot of changes in dominance and plenty of tongue involved, but it was a kiss to both of them, and the start of a year of, well, a perfectly normal relationship in a hectic, not normal life. They argued, they solved crimes; they ate take-out while watching crap telly or infomercials and they shagged. Yet still, everything was going to change. Again.

“John,” Sherlock’s head popped into John’s peripheral vision to stare at the blog entry John was writing. It was about their last case involving three suicides that weren’t really suicides and a murderer who wasn’t really a murderer. It was very _A Study in Pink_. “Is this last week’s case?”

“Of course it is,” John laughed, typing the last few words to the entry. He knew Sherlock was reading over his shoulder and he was anticipating his reaction to what he wrote.

“’ _I thank you all for your wishes for mine and Sherlock’s first year anniversary. I didn’t expect any, to say the least. I can say I am surprised that you all are keeping tabs!_ ’ What are you talking about? What people wished this?”

“Our fans, apparently,” John replied, leaning back once the post was published. “Plus Mrs. Hudson, Harry and Clara and Mycroft. Lestrade sent me a text about it. Did you know he won the betting pool?”

“Of course,” Sherlock scoffed. “His exact bet was ‘Sherlock and John will admit their feelings after a life threatening incident,’” John laughed softly, turning to face his partner. Sherlock’s face softened when they looked at each other. Sherlock leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss, something he had learned John appreciated. “Perhaps this would be the opportune time to tell you that I want to take you out tonight. For the anniversary.” 

“Sherlock, that is against absolutely everything you hold dear. That is too sentimental, especially for you,” John was making a joke, but the words held so much warmth that Sherlock knew his decision was a good one. 

“Yes, but this is seems appropriate,” Sherlock murmured, and kissed him again. “We leave in half an hour.” He was gone as quickly as he was there. John smiled; Sherlock’s kiss still burning his lips. He certainly had an amazing boyfriend, in all senses of the word. He still found it hard to believe that, he, John Watson, had captured the heart of Sherlock Holmes. He closed his laptop and went into their bedroom. Sherlock wasn’t in there, which meant he was doing something upstairs. John got dressed into something casual yet smart. He did a quick comb of his hair and huffed his appreciation. Sherlock swept in a few moments later, smiling lightly at him.

“You didn’t change,” John smiled, walking to him. Sherlock chuckled softly and kissed his forehead. 

“Many things don’t,” he said softly, taking his hand. John felt his skin burn to the contact, and he leaned against Sherlock’s side for a few moments. Together, they walked downstairs and began to walk towards Angelo’s, to where it all started. It seemed an odd coincidence that they just solved a case like A Study and now they were going to eat at Angelo’s, and those were the things that started their friendship and eventually their relationship. John didn’t dwell on it much. He and Sherlock spoke in hushed voices to each other, the smiles never leaving their lips. Sherlock looked like he was glowing, and it made John’s heart swell. Their hands still hadn’t parted, and heart was surging from their palms. People passed them with looks ranging from awed, to disgust to happy. Sherlock pretended not to notice and kept all of his attention on John.  
They arrived at Angelo’s and were swept away by a waitress to their usual table. Angelo saw them with the biggest grin John had ever seen the man wear. He put down a bottle of wine and a candle, and murmured something in Italian. Sherlock smiled at him, one that was genuine, and murmured something back. John obviously couldn’t understand what they were saying, but whatever it was made Angelo beam and go back to the kitchens. John’s eyes followed him curiously, but his attention was drawn back to Sherlock as he started to pour their wine. A very un-Sherlock like gesture, but John let it pass. He raised his glass to tap Sherlock’s, whose eyes hadn’t left his face and took a sip. The bottle said it was a Donauherbst Blaufränkisch 2008 Lieblich. Obviously German, which was another sign pointing toward _A Study in Pink_. Anderson-- the great idiot-- had said that the word _Rache_ that was carved into the floor. Rache is German for revenge. John dismissed this too and took another sip. Sherlock swallowed his own, his lips curled.

“You’re thinking,” Sherlock said, putting his glass down. “Your brow is furrowed and your eyes look far away. What is it you are thinking about?” John put his own glass down and sighed slightly.

“Even if I lied, you’d know the truth,” he smiled across to his flatmate, who returned it warmly. “Coincidences. Last week’s case seemed like the first one, our first one, we’re back at Angelo’s, somewhere we haven’t been for over a year, and our wine is German. There was some German themes in the case, that’s all,” Sherlock’s eyes shone pride that John was sure he wasn’t meant to see.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Sherlock took another sip of his wine, and didn’t say another word as their food came out. Another thing that surprised John is that Sherlock had ordered a meal, and actually started eating it. John let himself dwell on that fact as he ate his own. They were mostly silent, as John thought over the last few weeks. Sherlock had been acting very out-of-character, the impromptu kisses and the kindness towards him. John didn’t expect much when the relationship started, but he had received more than he bargained for when it came to Sherlock. Although he had never said the words, Sherlock showed John that he loved him in many different ways. After John had gone to Dublin for the countless time, he received a text from Sherlock every day, those of which made John’s day instantly better, and Sherlock knew it. When he had gotten home, Sherlock had more or less tackled him against the door and between breath-taking kisses, told him not to leave for that long again and how much it hurt to miss him the way he did. If John was an overly emotional person, those words could have made him cry. Instead they were seared onto his heart which swelled every time they touched. John knew he loved Sherlock. He had told him, from which his answers were gentle kisses and fond eyes. Out of every relationship he had ever been in, the one with the self proclaimed sociopath was the best, without any question.

After the meals had finished, and they were both on their second glass of wine, the most impossible and life changing event happened. One minute Sherlock was in his seat, the next he was kneeling next to John and turning him to face him. John became aware of all the eyes on him but he couldn’t turn away from Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock breathed and pressed a gentle kiss to his hand. “We have been in this relationship for a year as of today, and have been friends and flatmates for even longer and within that time; I have never properly shown you my affections for you and what you do. If it wasn’t for you, I would be addicted to recreational narcotics and living on the streets. Lestrade would say I was throwing away my brilliance, and that is true, I would be. But you, John, I have gained so much from you. And that is beginning to show in the way I act around you. You have begun to notice changes in my behaviour, have you not? That is your influence. You have influence on me because I love you, John Watson. And I have never said it before now because you already knew, but also because this is the moment that needs it most. 

Marriage is not something I saw myself doing, John, but that is something else you have changed. I want that piece of paper stating that we belong to each other, and I want the world to see it. That you have stolen the heart I didn’t have. All I ask is for you to say yes.” In Sherlock’s palms settled a small box, and in it sat a silver band. It was simple, yet beautiful. _Very much like John_. 

“Are you high?” John eventually choked out, and Sherlock’s face visibly fell. John dragged him up and kissed him hard, in front of the whole restaurant. Sherlock melted against him, the kiss dragging out until John broke away, his breathing shuddering. “Yes. Oh, God, yes. Sherlock, how could you not-- Jesus, yes to everything!” They kissed again, the patrons of the restaurant made noises of appreciation and there were the shutter tones of cameras going off. Once the kiss broke, Sherlock was smiling more genuinely and brighter than John had ever saw. The band was placed around his finger and Sherlock kissed it softly. Emotions surged through John, his head barely able to keep up and assess them. Sherlock got to his feet and helped John up. Angelo gave them both hugs and blessings in both English and Italian before they left the restaurant. John’s head was spinning happily and he felt like the ground beneath him was making him float and bounce away. Sherlock intertwined their fingers and led him back to 221. Mrs. Hudson greeted them at the door, the beam that lit up her face cold have powered the world for a week. She pulled Sherlock into a tender hug and kissed his cheek, whispering something in his ear that John couldn’t catch. It made Sherlock smile fondly as she pulled John into a hug and rubbed his back and told him she was so proud. When she pulled away, she blubbered slightly and went into 221a. Sherlock and John proceeded upstairs silently, but the silence was broken when the door shut and John found himself pinned to it, Sherlock’s body hard and warm against his own, and those talented fingers trapping his wrists against the wood. Their lips met, but without the tenderness from the restaurant. This kiss was filled with hunger, desire and animalistic need. Tongues danced and teeth clashed and John was sure he was going to melt there. Sherlock’s scarf and coat and John’s jacket had somehow been removed in the process, and now he towered John in his tailored shirt and pants. Sherlock gave a soft groan as he started to grind down against John’s frame. John strained to meet them, his erection becoming uncomfortable. They pulled away simultaneously, breathing heavy and pupils blown. Sherlock pulled back slightly and John took the advantage. They moved to their bedroom, and John laid himself down on the mattress. Sherlock placed his long legs by John’s sides and leaned down, their lips connecting again. John’s fingers danced along Sherlock’s back, and slipped down the front where he began unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt. Once the silken barrier hung freely at Sherlock’s shoulders, John stroked the soft alabaster skin of his middle and ribs. In one movement, Sherlock shrugged the shirt off and worked at John’s own button-up. Once that was gone, Sherlock moved down to kiss and suck softly at John’s neck. Appreciative moans passed through John’s lips every once in a while, and Sherlock returned them each time. Soon, both sets of pants were tossed unceremoniously to the ground and erections were pressing through cotton and silk, trying to be free as their bodies got slicker.

“God, _Sherlock_ …” John whispered softly, his… Fiancé’s lips kissing his ribs. “Stop with the foreplay, I think I’m hard enough…” Sherlock pulled up, his lips swollen from the crushing kisses and his hair wilder than ever. One corner of his lips lifted and he slipped his boxers off. John had seen Sherlock naked, quite frequently in fact, yet he never got tired of seeing his body, so free and all his. Every bone that showed, every scar was Sherlock, and John loved it. John’s underwear were removed and there he stood. Sherlock smiled down at him and then reached into the bedside table. He pulled out a condom packet and the almost empty bottle of lubricant. As John slipped on the condom over the stream of precome, and Sherlock lubricated his arse, they held each other’s eyes. Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and spread the excess lubricant over his fingers. John’s lids dropped and Sherlock’s fingers ghosted over the scar on John’s shoulder, their own signal for John to proceed. They flipped, John now looming over the taller man, Sherlock gazing up at his partner with wide, vulnerable eyes. John nudged his thighs apart and gave Sherlock a quick, chaste kiss before he ducked his head to watch his movements. He had learned a lot about anal sex in the time they had been together, and this was simply just the start. One finger slowly circled the skin of Sherlock’s arse before pushing in. John heard Sherlock’s soft sigh of appreciation and he smiled, before leaning down and kissing his ribs and hips. John moved that finger slowly, watching Sherlock intently. A second and a third were added to have Sherlock ready, and John was watching this beautiful man break for the countless time, and he felt the rush of love and satisfaction that it was him, boring old John Watson, who could do this to Sherlock. His fingers were soon removed and they were kissing again, Sherlock’s nails biting into John’s shoulders and John blindly lining up for entrance. Sherlock was shaking slightly, and John slowed the kiss down to tender. It slowed completely to a stop as John pressed the head of his cock into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock sucked in a breath, his eyes sliding to a close. John kept his eyes open, a quiet moan escaping his lips. John pushed in more, and then pulled back into his original position. He pushed in, and out, in and out, expelling moans from Sherlock each time. He kept his eyes on Sherlock’s face, which alternated from smooth to screwed up. No matter what he did, he was beautiful to John. He began to thrust harder without a command from Sherlock, knowing how much Sherlock liked and when he liked it. Sherlock gave a soft gasp and their lips connected again, moving clumsily against one another’s. Sherlock lifted himself up a little for a better angle as John thrusted deeper. Sherlock gave into a moan, his whole body shaking. They had only just begun and Sherlock felt to close for comfort. 

Their bodies continued to move against each others, kissing now long forgotten as Sherlock writhed and cried out John’s name like a broken record. John was too far gone to care about how loud they were being. His head was filled with a delightful buzz that only broke when he gasped Sherlock’s name or Sherlock half-moaning half-sobbing John’s name. Sherlock’s reaction to John being inside him, making love to him, just loving him had not changed, and both men were addicted to what they could do.   
John was brought back to life when he felt the familiar bubble of orgasm in his gut and the brush of Sherlock’s hand on his stomach as he pumped his prick.

“Sher-- Jesus, I’m going to--” John moaned, and Sherlock replied with a slight nod, too pleasured to form an intelligible sentence. John took a deep shaking breath, the heat spreading from his gut and throughout his entire body. 

“I love you, John Watson-- Only you--” Sherlock ended up forming together as John’s vision flashed white and his orgasm flowed through him, the latex covering around his prick warming and seeping with his seed. When his eyes opened, he watched Sherlock drop from his arch, and found both their stomachs covered with Sherlock’s ejaculate. John pulled out and took the condom off, throwing it into the bin next to the bed, and handing a tissue to Sherlock, who cleaned them both of slowly, his whole body still shaking slightly. He threw the tissue out and curled at John’s side, kissing his chest softly.

“I love you too, Sherlock,” John whispered, his fingertips brushing along one of his partner’s cheekbones. “And this…” He gestured to their intertwined bodies and his engagement ring. “This just shows how much. And you will never know how much it means that you abandoned your own beliefs for me.” He kissed Sherlock gently, cupping his cheek.

“I would abandon my genius for you if I could, John.” Sherlock said simply, kissing him again.

Their wedding was a month later, yet nothing really changed. They argued, they solved crimes, John blogged, Sherlock was an arsehole, they made love and they showed love. They had to hold some sense of normality.

**Author's Note:**

> Not the best sex scene, I know, I'm not the best at them, but I am trying. Thanks for reading. x


End file.
